


Legacies.

by outpastthemoat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Dead Obi-Wan Kenobi, Duel of the Fates Reversal, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Korkie Kryze is a Kenobi, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Obi-Wan dies prior to the beginning of this story, Past Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Planet Mandalore (Star Wars), Qui-Gon Jinn Lives, Qui-Gon Jinn as Korkie Kryze's Master
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:26:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outpastthemoat/pseuds/outpastthemoat
Summary: Qui-Gon receives the message not long after he returns to the Temple.Master Jinn, she writes.  Please come.  I need your help.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Qui-Gon Jinn & Korkie Kryze, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi & Satine Kryze, Qui-Gon Jinn & Satine Kryze
Comments: 40
Kudos: 134





	Legacies.

**Author's Note:**

> A little what-if scenario I couldn't get out of my head.

There is no death, there is the Force.

* * *

He does not allow any hands but his own to care for his padawan’s body. 

Qui-Gon cleans his padawan’s face, wiping away the evidence of battle from the brow, blood from the side of the mouth. He straightens the tunics, and comes across a stone tucked inside an inner pocket. A river stone, black with red inclusions. 

He slips the rock in his own pocket. Wraps the still form in his padawan’s discarded robe. Severs the braid hanging limply over the boy’s shoulder and ties it around the hilt of his padawan’s lightsaber. 

This braid—the river stone—the lightsaber Qui-Gon now wears at his hip in place of his own, now lost. 

Only three small tokens, he thinks. All this, and nothing more, to mark his life. This is all my padawan leaves behind. 

Not quite all. He carries Obi-Wan’s legacy in his chest, which has not ceased aching since his padawan’s final breath.

A Jedi leaves behind no home nor family; a Jedi has no legacy save the Order he leaves behind. There is nothing but the Force for them, in life and death.

He has lost a padawan before. The loss of Xanatos had been devastating. All his potential, gone in one charged moment. The loss of Obi-Wan is devastating in a different way. He does not mourn the spark of potential—though his padawan was so bright in the Force, shining with wisdom and courage and all that a knight should possess—

But Qui-Gon mourns the boy himself. The clear blue-gray eyes, the impish smile. The steady presence at his shoulder, always nearby.

_ How would I ever get on without you?  _ he had asked, once or twice, when his clever padawan had repaired the speeder bike or found the correct route or simply laid out his master’s cloak for the morrow by the door to his quarters, and Obi-Wan had grinned up at him each time he said it. 

_ You shall never have to try, master,  _ he had promised cheekily. 

All his life, Qui-Gon had desired nothing more than to be a teacher, so that his experience and knowledge would be passed down from generation to generation of Jedi. He had known that his student would go on to perform great deeds, that he would be a blessing to the Force.

Obi-Wan had not been a blessing to the Force, but to Qui-Gon himself. And he had indeed surpassed every goal his master had set for him, save one.

* * *

The pyre is lit, and Anakin comes to press himself against his side. 

“His light is gone,” Anakin says quietly. “I could see it, you know. Gold-white, like sparks from an engine. But it’s gone now. Where does a Jedi’s light go, when they die?”

Qui-Gon has no answer.

“His light has returned to the Force.”

This is what he has been taught.

“Will I still be your padawan?” Anakin asks, and he hesitates. 

“The Force will decide, in time,” he says eventually. But in his heart, he already knows his answer. The Force has taken two padawans from him, one through darkness and another through light. There can be no further mistakes, no further failures. He cannot bear to fail this child, on whose shoulders the galaxy will someday rest.

Obi-Wan’s face swims in front of him, clear as though he is still here, standing before him. 

He will not take a padawan again.

Anakin shivers. Qui-Gon watches as the flames take his padawan away. 

The fire will burn through the night, and when the flames lower and cool, the ashes will be collected and scattered into the river that winds through the heart of Theed. It is an honor for a Jedi, to be given the funereal rites of the world he had given his life to defend. 

This is balance, this is the Force. 

* * *

Balance is Coruscant, balance is choosing to settle Anakin with the healers and collect tunics and robes and boots for his kit before attending to Obi-Wan’s room. Balance is collecting the boy for regular meals before handling the few belongings his padawan had possessed. Balance is walking Anakin to his first classes with the initiates before closing himself off in his padawan’s room to sit in silence with his grief. 

Other Jedi stop him in the corridors to speak of his padawan.  _ His light will be missed,  _ they say.  _ He gave himself to the Force entirely, a true Jedi.  _

Qui-Gon agrees, but his heart betrays him so dearly that he cannot respond to these statements. He only bows his head in acknowledgement at each gentle touch to his shoulder, at each wistful remembrance.

_ A firebrand, that one. _

_ Possessed of sharp wit. _

_ A fine student. _

_ A kind soul. _

_ My friend. _

Obi-Wan’s legacies, scattered throughout the Temple and among the galaxy; the relationships he had built among the Jedi.

“There is no death,” he replies to each condolence. “There is the Force.”

* * *

Qui-Gon receives the message not long after he returns to the Temple.

_ Master Jinn _ , she writes.  _ Please come. I need your help. _

The message has been sent from Mandalore.

Satine.

He has not heard from her in several years, but he has kept track of the girl he had once been the guardian of, scanning the holonet for her name. Mandalore has thrived under her care. 

A Jedi does not expect to ever see their wards after the completion of a mission. But he had never quite been able to let go of the expectation that he would hear from her again.

_ Premonitions, master? _

He can almost hear his padawan’s teasing voice. 

_ I thought that was my area of expertise. _

He blindly pushes back against the grief. 

Qui-Gon reads the message again. And then once more, thoughtfully. He thinks about the girl he had once known. Watchful gray eyes and a stubborn set to her chin. She had been on guard with him at first. It had taken time for her to begin to open up to him. And then she had become dear to him. How can he turn her away?

He thinks of Anakin, newly attired in a padawan’s cream-colored gauze. He has not had the heart to venture to the dormitories to check on the boy in days. 

He knows that his padawan would say. Some quip about his soft heart.

Obi-Wan had sacrificed much to protect the duchess’s life and reign. His dedication must not be for nothing.

_ I will come, _ he sends back.  _ I will help, in any way possible. _

* * *

The coordinates enclosed in the datastream do not take him to Mandalore, but rather a nearby planet in the same sector; a nondescript world between Vulta and Serocco. Qui-Gon touches down on a landing platform above an estate with sprawling grounds and residences. 

Satine is waiting for him. She has changed, he thinks, though not much. There are new lines of grief in her youthful face, but there is still the stubborn tilt to her chin. 

“I heard of the Battle of Naboo,” she says without preamble. She does not say this name, though it passes between them unspoken. “The loss of your padawan is deeply felt across the galaxy. He touched the lives of so many.”

_ Obi-Wan.  _

Speaking his name is perhaps more than either can bear. 

He nods stiffly at her words. “I am at your service.”

Satine hesitates. 

“Come,” she says. “It might be easier to show you.”

* * *

She takes him to a small structure on the estate, nestled between two larger buildings. Bell-shaped cassaka flowers are growing up one side and over the roof, their many blossoms blooming in shades of yellow from golden to amber. 

Inside the building there are living spaces and kitchens. A residence of some sort. Satine leads him through the house to a room at the back of the house, where the doors open to a bright space with many cassoka-covered windows and toys scattered round.

There is a small boy kneeling on the floor. Perhaps two years old, no more than three; with round cheeks and fine reddish-blonde hair. 

Qui-Gon looks at him, and  _ knows _ .

He cannot speak. He cannot even begin to breathe.

The boy regards him warily, then glances at Satine. Like his mother, Qui-Gon reflects. He crouches down, making himself smaller. Children are often suspicious of him in the beginning. He has learned to bring himself down to their level.

“Hello, young one,” he greets the boy. The child studies him carefully, searching his face. So like his father. 

His father. 

Tears threaten to blur his vision. Qui-Gon chases them away with an impatient shake of his head. “May I hold you?” 

He waits a moment, then reaches for the boy and picks him up, careful to be gentle with his hands. The child allows himself to be held without protest. Small hands grip his tunics.

For a while, there is only silence in the room. Qui-Gon is cataloging all that he sees and measuring them against what he knows. Small dimpled hands, ten fingers—such tiny fingernails!—small feet with ten perfect toes. A stubborn chin, with a cleft. Such serious blue-gray eyes. 

A fresh wave of grief washes over him. He cannot stop looking and looking, even though his eyes are wet.

He sinks into the nearest chair and buries his face in the child’s hair. 

“Did he know?” Qui-Gon asks eventually, once he can speak again. Satine does not comment on his hoarse voice or wet cheeks, understanding his need for privacy. She has always understood his moods, at times better than his own padawan; they are alike in many ways. His padawan had always worn his heart on his sleeve. But Qui-Gon must keep certain emotions tucked out of sight. 

“No,” Satine answers. “I thought perhaps—it would be easier. For us both. No one knows. He is safer that way.”

“He never would have left you, had he known.”

“I know.” There is a quiet certainty in her voice. “I thought...I did not want to take him away from the Jedi. From  _ you.  _ I knew what he meant to you, Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan was meant to be a knight.”

There. His name, finally spoken. He has not been able to speak Obi-Wan’s name out loud to a soul. Not to his padawan’s friends, not to the masters and councilors who gently ask about how he is doing.  __

He has not been able to speak of Obi-Wan to any soul. None knew the depth of his grief. Except this woman, who had loved his padawan with a fierceness that he had once both feared and wondered at.

_ Emotion, yet peace, _ those masters remind him. But Qui-Gon has not known peace since he had lit his padawan’s pyre.

“What have you called him?” he asks, and a sudden smile steals over her face. For a moment, she looks almost like the girl he had known. 

“He would have wanted to honor you,” she says, “And I wished to honor you as well, for all that you did for me. His name is Kor-Qui.”

Qui-Gon looks down at the child again. Obi-Wan’s child. His namesake. 

“For so long, I have kept him secret. I had not wished to tell the Jedi of his existence. I did not want him to be tested for your powers. But now I must know. Can he touch the Force?”

Qui-Gon studies the child in his arms again, passes a soothing hand over the boy’s head. He must calm his own heart before he can touch the Force. He is suddenly afraid of what he might find in this child. If the boy is of the Force, will his mother allow him to be trained? Might he have a future at the Temple? Might Qui-Gon hear his laughter through the halls on his returns from distant worlds, and would it sound anything like the laughter of another child who had been so dear to him? 

And if the boy cannot touch the Force, what then? What of his future? And what would that mean for Qui-Gon, and his sudden impossible hopes?

In the dark of the Force, he sends his senses scouting, flickering his own light like a beacon. There is nothing, for a while. Qui-Gon rocks the child, and hums a song he remembers from the creche, an Alderaanian lullaby about blankets made of starlight and beds made of snow.

And then, like a glowmoth flickering, there is a light in the darkness.

“Yes. He can touch the Force.”

Satine turns away from him. She stands by the windows, her head bowed. Underneath the septsilk of her pale blue dress, her shoulders are shaking.

Qui-Gon gives her time for her grief. He strokes the boy’s hair, over and over, touches the smoothness of his cheek. Marveling at the softness against his rough fingers. He has never known anything so soft before. 

He holds the small hand and presses a kiss into the soft palm. His moustache must tickle, for the boy makes a noise of surprise and then flashes Qui-Gon the barest hint of a smile. Had his padawan ever been this small? He must have been, long before Qui-Gon had come to know him. 

Finally Satine turns back to him. Her shoulders are set in a posture that he knows well. She finds strength in her convictions, as his padawan had. They were made for each other.

“He needs protection, just as I once did,” Satine says. “I don’t wish to give him up, but—”

Her voice cracks then, and her stoic countenance shatters along with it. 

Qui-Gon does not require her to explain. He already knows what strength of will it requires to allow a child pass out of your hands.

He cannot promise her that he will keep her child safe. He could not even make that promise to his own padawan. But he can assure her of one thing.

“He will be cared for,” he tells her. “He is a child of the Force. The Jedi will welcome him.”

“I know,” she answers. “That is why I asked you to come here.  _ You, _ Qui-Gon, and no one else, no other Jedi. I wish for you to be his master. Take him as your padawan, when he is of age.”

He exhales heavily. 

“Satine. You cannot ask that of me. There is to be no attachment for a Jedi, and this,  _ this _ —”

“I know,” Satine interrupts him. “And yet I ask it of you anyway. I know you cannot protect him. That is not meant for a Jedi—or for a Mandalorian. But you will cherish him. Promise me, Master Jinn. 

And just like that, Qui-Gon sees an entire universe laid out at his feet, where moments before there had been nothing. Coruscant, alternating his time with a child in the creche and a boy in the initiates’ dormitory; then, years later, when Anakin’s braid is cut, he will stride down the corridors of the Temple and fall to his knee to ask this child to be his padawan. And then perhaps there will be another boy at his side, perhaps with the same impudent smile as his father, perhaps with the same intuitive yearning for the Force.

This child cannot replace Obi-Wan, he knows this. And the Jedi know that legacies are more than bloodlines and parentage. 

But here is a part of Obi-Wan that he can hold, touch, treasure. Who might wish to know, some distant day, about his father, who might eagerly ask for all the stories Qui-Gon can remember about the padawan he had loved like his own son. 

Hope, so long absent, rises in his chest.

The child is looking up at him, blue-gray eyes unafraid, curiously touching the tears drying on Qui-Gon’s cheek. The Force finds a way, he thinks. Against all odds.

Satine watches him with bleak eyes. He cradles her child close to his heart, rocks him back and forth.

“You have my word,” Qui-Gon swears to her.

* * *

There is no death. There is the Force. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I originally thought of this as a one-shot...might add some more to it if inspiration strikes.
> 
> Did I just Rennesme Korkie Kryze's name??? Yes I did and I'm not sorry about it.


End file.
